Stolen
by Lady Emily
Summary: "Do you always take pictures of strange girls in hotel lobbies?" A boy detective. A shady government agency. A beautiful art thief. A tale as old as time.


Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no money from the writing of this story. The dialogue from the first scene is from the ND/HB Supermystery _A Crime for Christmas_.

A/N: Here's something a little different than what I usually write... Plot spoilers for the Supermysteries _A Crime for Christmas _and _The Paris Connection_. Warnings for sexy times and some bad language!

Before you ask, there's no more written to this story... yet. I _probably_ will continue it, but I also kind of like where it ends for now. As always, I'd love to know what you think! Enjoy!

* * *

The first time he saw her he was seventeen, she, a year older. He was in town to catch a team of art thieves rumored to be targeting the visiting contingent of dignitaries from the country of Sarconne.

She was in town to steal the crown jewels.

The New York City Winslow Hotel was immaculately decorated for the holidays, and Joe Hardy wandered through the lobby seemingly aimlessly, scanning the room through a telephoto lens. They didn't know much about the mysterious cat burglars yet—only that they were rumored to be a father-son team using the Winslow as their base—and Joe was determined to catch as many suspects as possible on camera.

He'd already caught two rolls of likely suspects when she caught his eye. One floor above him, at the hotel cafe, a beautiful girl was nursing a steaming mug. Her auburn hair shone in the twinkling Christmas lights as she shook it back over her shoulder, surveying the lobby like she owned it.

Joe lifted the camera and snapped the picture almost before he realized he'd done it.

Her eyes landed on his. He tried to look away, to pretend he'd been aiming at something else, but she was already marching down the stairs toward him. It was a little embarrassing, but mostly intriguing. Not every girl would have come right up and confronted him.

"Do you always take pictures of strange girls in hotel lobbies?" Her voice was musical, her upper-class British accent charming.

If he'd been caught before, he was utterly ensnared now. "What?" he asked innocently.

"The least you can do is send me a copy."

"Right." He bit back a smile, making some excuse about getting carried away shooting the architecture. "You're very photogenic, you know."

When she smiled she went from beautiful to breathtaking. "Oh? Are you a professional?"

"Well, no, not really." His next line would make or break the encounter, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. "Just an amateur with an eye for beauty."

Her eyes sparkled and she held out her hand. "I'm Fiona Fox."

She spent the next few days playing him for a fool—cozying up to him, figuring out what he knew and relaying the info back to her father and partner-in-crime. She asked him to make her a copy of the photo he'd taken, followed him into the soft red light of the makeshift darkroom, bit her lip as her dark gaze wandered between the negatives and his face... Then someone had broken into the room, and she warned the intruder away with a cry, faking an attack on her own person with wide, innocent eyes.

Even the fact that they managed to save the Sarconne jewels (through sheer luck) did little to ease the sting that she was gone.

* * *

She was dressed differently when he next spotted her in Paris some months later, but when their eyes met, it was a physical jolt. She looked alarmed—as any professional thief who'd been recognized might be—but she didn't lose her cool, slipping smoothly into the crowds and out of sight. He'd almost talked himself into believing he'd imagined her... would have, had he and Frank in the city for any reason other than an educational conference on art smuggling.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't for her to show up at his hotel room, nearly in tears, begging for his help. She swore that she and her father had gone straight, that the only thing standing between them and an honest living was a blackmailing art smuggler called the Conductor, holding the dirty deeds of their previous lives over their heads.

Frank was skeptical, and he was right to be, Joe knew. But he couldn't look Fiona Fox in the eye and refuse to help her. The idea that she wanted to do the right thing, that she might have changed... it was strangely compelling.

And when they let her slip through their fingers the following week, just barely managing to recover the priceless Picassos the pair had stolen, the look on Joe's face was enough to stop Frank from saying I-told-you-so.

* * *

It was another year and a half before he saw her again, this time in Washington D.C. It was spring break, and Joe, along with his girlfriend Vanessa Bender, were visiting Frank in his freshman year at GWU. Since Frank had classes to attend, Joe and Vanessa had chosen to spend the morning exploring the sights... but the sight of Fiona Fox, relaxing with a guidebook on a park bench on the national mall, was not one he'd been expecting to see. A sense of disbelief welled up in him, tinged with a little bit of bitterness. Thrusting his wallet into a perplexed Vanessa's hands, he left her standing in line at a street vendor. "I'll be right back."

He approached casually and sat down on the other end of the bench, reaching down to tie his sneaker. She looked over, but he didn't even give her the time to recognize him before he said, "I was planning on checking out the Hope Diamond. Is it still there, or should I not bother?"

For a second, she looked like she might bolt, but she didn't. Instead she shrugged, eyes sparkling. "I'm actually on vacation. But imagine, running into you here. It's been too long."

"You're on vacation." Joe repeated flatly. "Why don't I believe you?"

Her eyebrows drew together, and she sighed. "I'm sorry about Paris, Joe. It was nothing personal."

"Nothing personal?" Joe repeated. "We agreed to help you, after what happened in New York, and you lied to us and double crossed us, _again_."

"Well, you caught the Conductor, didn't you?" she asked.

"Can't take much credit for that." Joe said coolly. "Since you led us right to him. What was that, anyway? What happened to 'honor among thieves'?"

That drew a laugh from her. "You're such a romantic."

Vanessa joined them, carrying two bottled waters and handing one to Joe. She smiled pleasantly at Fiona, but there was the tiniest twinge of suspicion in her expression. "Hello."

Joe stood up quickly. "Van, this is Fiona. Fiona, my girlfriend, Vanessa."

"Pleasure." Fiona rose, graceful as ever, and shook Vanessa's hand. "I am sorry, but I should really be getting along. I have some... errands to attend to."

Joe folded his arms across his chest. "I thought you were on vacation?"

She tucked her long auburn hair behind her ear with one finger. With her face turned into the light, Joe detected a slight weariness behind her bright eyes. "I am, in a manner of speaking. My father, he's in the hospital, recovering from an operation."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I hope it went well." Vanessa offered sympathetically.

Joe said nothing. It wouldn't be the first time Fiona had used her father's 'poor health' as a cover story.

"I think it did, thanks." Fiona said. Her eyes met Joe's one last time. "It was lovely to see you again, Joe." She touched him on the arm as she left, her fingers just barely resting on his jacket sleeve.

He didn't watch her leave, jamming his hands in his pockets and walking in the opposite direction.

"Well you're in a mood." Vanessa commented, following him. "What's the deal? Old girlfriend?"

"Close," Joe said. "Cat burglar we've never been able to catch red-handed."

"Hmm." Vanessa said thoughtfully. "...Does that make her 'the one who got away'?"

Joe barely paid attention to her quip; he was frantically searching his pockets. "I can't believe this! Did she-?"

"Joe." When he looked up, Vanessa was holding up his wallet, her gray eyes dancing. "Relax."

* * *

The historic Philadelphia mansion was bustling with celebrating socialites, dancing, talking, sipping champagne. Joe stood against the wall, just managing to refrain from loosening his tie in the stuffy ballroom. He wore suits a lot more often these days, but that didn't mean he always enjoyed it.

He would never have seen her if she hadn't seen him first. Their eyes met and skimmed past each other—it was only her slight jerk of recognition that made him take a second look. He turned on the spot and followed her, weaving through the glittering crowd with single-minded purpose.

He grabbed her by the elbow without contacting skin, thanks to the elbow-length satin gloves she wore, and Joe couldn't help wondering if she'd coordinated her whole outfit around the goal of not leaving fingerprints. "Please tell me you're not here for the reason I think you're here."

She turned around. Her forest green evening gown made her eyes look almost aggressively green, and the effect was breathtaking. "And what reason would that be?"

Joe glanced around, pulling her closer to him so that they could talk without being overheard. "Those paintings are being auctioned for charity, Fiona."

"I'm not here to steal from a charity, Joe. Honestly!" she said flippantly, as though the idea was ridiculous.

"Then why?" he pressed.

She opened her purse, flashing him a glimpse of a cream-colored card. "I was invited. My father and I are active supporters of the arts." It was almost a joke; her eyes were bright and teasing.

"I'll bet." he snorted, not missing the fact that the invitation was addressed to a Marilyn Livingston. "Care to dance, Ms. Livingston?"

Grinning, she slipped her hand into his in response and they made their way onto the dance floor to the sound of a slow, romantic swing beat. Her other hand skimmed over his sleeve and came to rest on his shoulder. His hand slid around to the small of her back, and he was holding her for the first time in... well, ever.

"I...ahm... I take it your girlfriend isn't here? Vanessa, wasn't it?" Fiona, making polite small talk.

"Vanessa." Joe agreed, his voice taking on a slightly-detached note. "And, no, she's not. It... didn't work out." She'd been gone for six months, and though it hadn't been a hostile breakup, it _had_ been painful.

She must have read it in his face, because she squeezed his hand lightly and changed the subject. "Tell me, Joe." she said as they swayed together slowly. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"This is my dad's private security gig." Joe answered. He shook thoughts of Vanessa from his head, taking advantage of Fiona's closeness to study her face. It had been over three years since he'd seen her, and she looked older, more capable than she had before... probably, he did too. "I was back in Bayport for a while; Dad asked me to come along as an extra set of eyes."

"Won't he be upset that you're dancing with me instead of helping him?" she asked coyly.

Joe pulled her just a half-step closer to murmur into her ear, "I'm thinking, the best way to help him would be to not take my eyes off you for the rest of the night."

She ducked her head; was she actually blushing? "Well, then..."

He grinned. "Well then."

It was difficult to think of anything else with her pressed up against him, but the niggling voice in his head reminded him not to let his guard down completely. He'd been taken in by her before. No matter how sweet and earnest she looked, Fiona Fox and her father were nothing more than an expert team of thieves... which meant she must be working an angle.

"My father's not here." she said softly, startling him out of his musings. He must have looked at her questioningly because she said, "That's what you were thinking about, isn't it? Wondering, if _I'm_ here, where is _he_?"

"As a matter of fact..." Joe admitted.

"He's not here." she repeated. "This is a solo mission for me." At his accusatory look, she quickly amended, "Outing. Pleasure trip."

He'd known she was here on a job all along, but he wasn't happy to hear it confirmed. He let go of her, stepping back. "Oh, _please._"

She looked hurt first, then put out. Cocking her chin defiantly, she turned away from him. "Fine." She walked away from him calmly, but quickly, weaving dextrously through the other dancing couples, Joe right on her heels. When he followed her into the grand foyer, she turned around exasperatedly, her gown swishing around her ankles. "If you're so disgusted with me, then stop following me around."

"I told you I wasn't taking my eyes off you." Joe said stubbornly.

"Very well." Fiona accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter; Joe declined. She leaned against a doorjamb patiently, her pale skin a stark contrast to the dark wood of the elaborately-carved door. "I can enjoy myself with you here."

Joe let out a pained sigh. "Why do you do this, Fiona?"

She toyed with the glass in her hand. "It's my job."

"It's not a job, it's—"

She cut him off. "Why do you do what _you _do?"

"Going to school? Or being a detective?"

"Not that. Your _real_ job." Fiona said. One hand behind her back, she leaned against the handle, and the door swung open just slightly.

Joe frowned. "What do you mean?" But he was looking around carefully, following her into the empty room, which turned out to be a dark library, the walls lined with inset wooden shelves laden with dusty books. He shut the door behind them.

She reached out with her free hand and fingered the lapel of his suit jacket. "Government, right? Which agency? ...It's alright, I won't tell anybody." she said with a teasing smile.

"That's a good skill to have in your line of work." He tried not to show that her guess had surprised, and yes, impressed him. "How'd you know?"

She shrugged one bare, elegant shoulder. "It's the way you hold yourself. The suit." Her gloved palm slid up his chest to pat the slight bulge in his inside jacket pocket. "The badge."

He grabbed her hand before she could reach into his jacket and pull it out. "Good eye." She was so close now, her arm pressed against his chest, their faces separated only by a flute of champagne. With his free hand, he took the glass from her and drained it, setting the empty glass on one of the bookshelves.

She let out a little, almost-inaudible moan.

Their lips met.

He wrapped his arm around her slender waist and pulled her up and into him. She poured herself into the kiss, matching him motion for motion, returning his caresses with equal fervor. He started to feel lightheaded.

His knees buckled under him and he stumbled, blinking, confused. Her face swam in and out of focus as he felt her guiding him into a high-backed armchair. "Fi... Fiona..."

"I'm sorry, Joe." Her lips on his forehead was the last thing he felt before the world went black.

Predictably, when he awoke four hours later, she was gone, along with the drugged champagne glass and an assortment of expensive jewelry that the guests didn't miss until they got home.

She left his Network identification badge sitting, closed, in his lap.

* * *

"Thanks for coming, gentlemen." The man at the head of the table pushed back his chair and lit a cigarette, signaling the end of the meeting.

Joe said nothing, but inwardly he was relieved. Even as a teenager he'd relished the challenge of undercover assignments like this one... but the worst part about organized crime cases was that they tended to include long, boring business meetings. Still, his adrenaline was running high—this was sort of a last-minute, in-and-out mission; if anybody realized that he wasn't the person he was impersonating, he was in big trouble. Normally the Network preferred to let other, more legitimate government branches tackle the business of organized crime... except in cases where the syndicate had suspicious Communist ties.

The gathering slowly began to break up, and the man next to him turned and offered a friendly comment. "So, you've come a long way. Henrik, wasn't it?"

"Yes." Joe said. He wasn't particularly talented with languages, but he'd always been good at faking accents, and he could get by here, where no one was likely to be familiar with the linguistic nuances of a specific part of Eastern Europe... as long as he didn't have to talk _too _much.

"Are things as bad over there as they say?" The man asked.

"I can tell you the airports are Hell." Joe joked, with the slow, careful speech of a non-native English speaker.

"_Come on, Joe." _Kev's voice sounded from his earpiece. _"You planted the bug, stop flirting with the goodfellas and get out."_ Joe disregarded the nagging; Kev was the new tech guy, and he was just nervous about his first field mission. He kind of reminded Joe of Frank.

He grabbed his coat and was in the process of putting it on when the double doors to the meeting room burst open and two men entered, dragging a young woman between them. Her dark hair obscured most of her downturned face, but from the ginger way that she moved, Joe could tell she'd already taken a few hits. Like the rest of the room, he paused in his tracks, waiting to see what was going to happen. _Could be trouble._

The boss stubbed out his cigarette in his glass ashtray and lit another calmly. "What's this?"

"She was caught breaking into the warehouse on 12th." One of the woman's captors said.

"12th?" That caught the boss's attention. He stood up and walked around the table to stand in front of her.

"Yeah." said the other guy. "Someone said she had a partner, too, an old guy. But we couldn't find him."

"Who do you work for?" said the boss.

"No one." the girl answered. "I freelance."

It had been nearly three years since Joe had heard that voice, but it only took him one second to place it. He was shocked, but his training took over, and a slight, involuntary tensing of the shoulders was the only sign of recognition he gave.

"I see. And what interest could you possibly have in our warehouse?"

She didn't answer, tipping her head up defiantly. Despite the brunette hair—probably part of some disguise—and the darkening bruise staining her left cheek, there was no doubting now that he was looking at Fiona Fox. Her clever eyes raked the room, apprising the situation. When they came to Joe, they lingered on him just a moment longer than he was comfortable with.

Their last encounter flashed through his mind. She knew he was Network.

Would she blow his cover?

"Where's your partner?" the boss growled, his face so close that cigarette ash fell onto the front of her shirt.

"I work alone." Joe hadn't realized until she said it that he was waiting for her to implicate _him_ in this somehow.

"_Crap. What's going on in there?" _He could hear Kev talking in his ear, updating the team on what was happening, but Joe ignored it, watching with a growing sense of dread as Fiona looked her captor bravely in the face.

The boss's eyes shone with malice as he plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and placed his hand on her shoulder, the heat from its glowing tip reddening the lily-white skin of her neck. "I said, where's your partner?"

"I work alone." she repeated quietly. The tip of the cigarette touched her skin, just above her collarbone. Her jaw clenched, her breathing grew heavier, but she didn't cry out.

Joe wasn't sure how long he could stand to just watch. He might not _like_ Fiona Fox, exactly; she and her father had made a fool out of him more times than he cared to admit. But neither did he want to see her being tortured.

And his instincts screamed at him to do something to protect her.

The boss leaned back abruptly, taking another long drag from the cigarette, and looked around the room. "Would you leave us alone, boys? It seems I have a private meeting to attend."

The other men began to file out of the room. Joe hesitated.

"_Don't even think about blowing your cover for some girl." _Kev hissed in his ear. _"Don't even __**think **__it." _

Joe met her gaze once more. Then—so quickly he almost thought he'd imagined it—she winked.

"_Just leave her. Leave her."_

It was the smart thing to do. And she'd certainly never hesitated to leave him, had she?

He walked past her and didn't look back. Not even when the thick wooden doors closed behind him.

"_Thank god. For a second I thought you were gonna do something stup—"_

He barely waited until he was out of the building to tear the comm link out of his ear.

* * *

He couldn't really account for how happy he was to see her when she slid onto the stool next to him at his favorite bar a few weeks later. It was a crappy little hole-in-the-wall, not in the best part of D.C., but it was close to his apartment and nobody ever asked him questions.

"How are you, Joe?"

Her plum-colored sheath dress was elegant, not slutty, and her shiny brown hair reflected the neon lights of the beer signs. For someone whose life depended on blending in, it was astonishing how out of place she looked. A few of the other patrons gave her appreciative glances, but no one approached her—they were unused to seeing girls like Fiona in here. If Joe had had more than two beers under his belt he might have thought he was seeing things himself.

"Good, I'm good." he said, unable to fight back a smile.

"You didn't expect to see me here." she surmised, signaling the bartender for a drink.

"Honestly? I kind of thought you might be dead." He was only half-joking. It had been three weeks since he'd left her to fend for herself in the hands of criminals, and he'd woken up in a cold sweat more than once thinking about what might have happened to her.

"You were worried about me." she purred.

"Obviously I shouldn't have been."

"A good cat burglar always lands on her feet." she said lightly, and he laughed.

How could this happen? How could she—possibly the only criminal he'd let get away in his long and successful history of solving cases—just walk up to him in a bar and have a drink with him like they were old friends? They were ostensibly enemies, even. So why did being around her feel so natural?

The bartender brought their drinks—lager for him, dirty gin martini for her. He picked up his glass, making a mental note to watch his drink very carefully. "I'd have expected you order something more... British."

Her laughter was warm and infectious. "You mean, like a shandy or something?"

"I don't even know what that is." Joe admitted.

"And _that's_ why you don't order them in America." Fiona teased. She plucked the toothpick out of her glass and slid the first olive off the end with her teeth in a motion that, to Joe, seemed hopelessly seductive. Why did she get under his skin like this?

Why did he let her?

Two hours and several drinks later, they were standing outside his apartment building, kissing lazily in the shifting colors of the corner traffic light. "Is there a particular reason you're not inviting me up?" she asked, eyes closed, between kisses.

"Don't really trust you." he answered in kind.

"Not really asking you to." she murmured against his lips.

It had probably been a forgone conclusion when she walked into the bar tonight that they'd end up here: together, in the entryway of his apartment, undressing under each other's heated gazes. He toed off his sneakers and unbuttoned his shirt. She braced herself against the wall as she slipped off first her shoes and then her nylons. Then she turned around, sweeping her hair over her shoulder, exposing the zipper of her dress in an unspoken invitation.

He pulled the zipper slowly, dragging it down to reveal her flesh inch by inch. The sleeves fell away from her shoulders, and he kissed them, only stopping when he reached a small circle of shiny pink scar tissue—the healing burn from the lit cigarette. He pulled her against him just a little bit tighter. "I _was_ worried about you." he admitted softly. "I hated leaving you like that."

"We do what we have to do." she said gently, shrugging one shoulder in understanding.

He shook his head; to him, that wasn't enough to justify what he'd done. "I'm so glad you're safe." He didn't know how she'd gotten away, and he doubted she'd tell him if he asked, but he was glad.

She turned back to him, and he could have sworn that, just for a second, he saw tears shining in her eyes before she quickly blinked them back. Her dress pooled on the floor around her feet, and she let him guide her back, backwards into the bedroom.

Afterwards, he tangled his fingers into her dark hair while she rested against his chest. "You know, I like the brunette, but I really miss the red."

"Mmm." she murmured, half-asleep. "I'll take that under advisement."

He smiled; he loved the way she said stuff like that. '_I'll take that under advisement._' Who said that after sex?

He woke as soon as she did in the morning, years of Network crises and insanity having all but destroyed his ability to sleep in, but politely pretended to sleep for a few minutes longer while she collected and put on her clothes. He opened his eyes to her standing in the bedroom doorway, purse in hand, looking at him with an expression that was almost... regretful.

He must have been wearing it too as he got up wordlessly and slipped on a pair of boxers, padding over to stand in front of her. What could he say? This wasn't—_couldn't_ be—a relationship. He couldn't tell her he'd call her. She wasn't going to stay for breakfast. "Can we... _not _let another three years go by before I see you again?" he asked finally.

She leaned up and kissed him softly. "I'd like that."

* * *

"Joe, don't forget to get the guys' tuxes and return them tomorrow, okay?"

Joe grinned. "Hey bro, it's your wedding night, I can't believe you're already worried about the morning-after."

Frank sat down beside him and punched him in the arm. "Shut up." The wedding reception was winding down, the older relatives heading upstairs to their hotel rooms. Most of the young people hung around, chatting and laughing in groups.

"I am fully prepared to hunt our friends to the ends of the earth if they don't return their tuxes. I'll handle it, Frank, I promise. Don't worry about a thing—they don't call me the Best Man for nothing."

"Thanks." Frank said. "I just wasn't sure if you'd have time—"

"My flight doesn't go out until like 9pm." Joe reminded him. "I'll have time."

Frank nodded. "I wish you could stay longer." he said. "But I'm glad you came."

Joe reached over and clapped his brother on the shoulder. "Are you kidding? I wouldn't have missed it for anything." He'd actually had to fight tooth and nail for the time off, given that they'd wanted to schedule him for an overseas mission, but he'd refused to miss Frank's wedding.

Though Frank tried to hide it, Joe's choice to join the Network had always worried and, yes, disappointed him, just as it had Vanessa. Thankfully, Frank had stuck by him despite his disapproval—Joe wasn't sure he would have been able to handle losing them both when he'd taken the job. And there was no way he was going to let Frank down now by not being here.

"Figured you'd just get the Gray Man to pull some strings." Frank joked.

"This might surprise you, considering the number of times we bailed them out of trouble when we were kids, but I get zero special treatment." He didn't bother mentioning that he didn't report to the Gray Man anyway.

Frank laughed. "I do often find myself worrying about how you'll get by without me there to pull your ass out of the fire."

"And I'm constantly wondering the same thing about you." Joe said with a grin. "Law school? Marriage? How can you possibly do it without me?" Truth be told, he'd been a little disappointed himself when Frank had turned down his own offer from the Network. Disappointed, but not surprised. "Hey, why don't you grab Callie and get out of here? I'll kick out the riffraff—" He nodded at their friends, "—and tidy up before I head upstairs."

Frank nodded, getting up. "Thanks, Joe. I appreciate it."

"No sweat. And, hey, Frank? Congratulations, man. I'm happy for you."

Chet and Tony stayed behind to help out, and they got the hall emptied out in short order. Still, it was nearly midnight by the time Joe found himself back at his hotel room, alone. He inserted the key card, pushed the door open, and stopped in his tracks.

The room was dark, but moonlight spilled in through the glass balcony door, outlining the silhouette of a woman sitting on the bed. She was facing away from him, but she turned her head just enough that Joe could make out her features. Even in the dim light, he could tell that her hair had gone back to auburn, and he smiled.

"Fiona." he said calmly, the shock of her sudden appearance wearing off, "It's only been six months. We're getting better at this." He didn't bother asking how she'd gotten in, but he did feel suddenly thankful that Callie had made him swear not to put the moves on any of her college friends at the reception.

Fiona launched herself into his arms and he caught her, only stumbling back slightly as she pressed herself desperately against him. "Joe..."

She kissed him hard and he lifted her up so that she could wrap her legs around his waist. "It's good to see you too." he groaned as she loosened his tie and pulled it over his head. "Fiona, what... why...?" His line of questioning trailed off as she worked his shirt open and slid her tongue along his collarbone. _Damn._

Pulling back, she ripped her own shirt off, revealing a dark-colored bra and a tantalizing expanse of smooth white skin. He took a few steps forward and pinned her against the wall, freeing his hands to wander. She gasped his name into his ear, nipping at it with her teeth.

Eventually, they made it to the bed.

They were lying back against the pillows, breathless and panting, before Joe was able to say, "Not that I'm in any way complaining, but... what brings you here?"

She rested her head on his shoulder for a long moment. "My father's dead."

Instinctively, he looped his arm around her and pulled her closer. "God, Fiona. I'm sorry."

She nestled into him and sighed. "It was his heart. He's been having troubles with it for years. He's... he _had_ several operations, and I tried to get him to take it easy, do some work on my own, remove some of the pressure from him. Yesterday we were in Boston, talking to an... art collector friend of ours, and he just... collapsed. By the time we got him to the hospital..."

"_Yesterday_?" Joe repeated incredulously. Her father, her partner, the one constant in her world, had _just_ died and she'd come here, to him?

She nodded against his chest. "I... I knew your brother was getting married. I knew you'd be here." she confessed stiltingly. "And... I just wanted to see you."

Even though it was crazy, he felt a rush of protectiveness come over him. "Fi..." It was crazy that she'd driven all the way from Boston the day after her father's death to be with him. It was crazy that this smart, beautiful woman had no one she could turn to besides the man who'd tried to get her imprisoned years ago. But as crazy as it was, he couldn't deny that he felt something between them, a connection, and the fact that none of it made sense didn't seem to matter. "I'm glad you came."

"Thank you."

She curled against him and he stroked a gentle hand up and down her arm. They stayed like that for a long time. "...What are you going to do now?" Joe asked finally, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness.

She shook her head. "I really don't know."

Either he'd been particularly exhausted, or she was getting stealthier, because she managed to leave the next morning without waking him. What's more, he had showered, dressed, and brushed his teeth before he realized she'd also stolen his watch.

* * *

Joe idly played Tetris on his phone as he scanned the hotel lobby for his target. In truth, he didn't know what he was doing here at all, just that when he'd gotten the phone call from his informant—all right, it was his old friend Nancy Drew—he'd been compelled to book a flight to Chicago for no reason he could put into words.

_He entered his apartment and eased down on his couch, trying to avoid putting too much pressure on the injuries he'd sustained during the mission. The red light was blinking on his phone—the number that he gave out to friends and family—indicating a new message. He grabbed the handset and played it._

"_Hey Joe, it's Nancy Drew. Just calling to see how things are going. Give me a call back when you get a chance. 224-555-7253. Bye."_

_Joe frowned; he hadn't so much as heard from Nancy since Frank's wedding last year. He'd actually been surprised that she'd come, given the history she shared with Frank, and he'd supposed that keeping in touch might just be too painful for her. He checked the time and dialed her back. After exchanging pleasantries, he commented, "It's been a long time since you just called me up for a chat, Drew. What's the story?"_

_She laughed. "I just wanted to see if you'd heard about what happened at the Art Institute of Chicago."_

"_No, I've been away on business." Joe said. Way away. Out-of-the-country away._

"_Ah. A successful business endeavor, I hope?" she said dryly. Only a handful of people—Frank, his parents—knew that Joe was Network, but Nancy was one of the few who had never bought his story about working for a 'private security firm.' But then, she'd always had gifted detective instincts, which served her well in her current capacity as a private investigator._

"_I survived." Which was about all he could say for this particular mission. "So what's the deal with the Art Institute? Do you __**finally**__ need my help on a case?"_

"_I __**wish **__this was my case. I read about it in the newspaper and then... called on one of my Chicago P.D. contacts for details." Nancy said. "Two days ago, two paintings, valued at over four million dollars each, were stolen from the Institute by a team of thieves. According to rumor, one of them was our old friend Fiona Fox." _

_Joe didn't know what to say._

"_I thought that might interest you." Nancy said. "I heard about what she did to you and your dad in Philadelphia a few years back. Anyway—and this is the weird part—the thieves are in the process of ransoming the paintings back to the Institute."_

"_That... that is weird." Joe mused. "It doesn't really sound like Fiona's style. I've never heard of her artnapping before."_

"_Yeah, that's what I thought." Nancy agreed. "They must need the cash quick, for some reason. Maybe it has something to do with her father being sick—he's apparently had half a dozen operations over the past few years."_

_Joe sincerely doubted that, given that her father had been dead for nearly a year... or had he? His last encounter with Fiona had been raw and passionate, but the way she'd left him hadn't exactly inspired a wealth of trust in him. It could have all been a lie... but why? _

_He realized that he was still on the phone with Nancy. "Hm, could be." he said noncommittally. "Thanks for the heads up, let me know if you hear anything else about it."_

"_Will do." Nancy promised. "But honestly, I don't have high hopes that they'll catch her."_

"_Yeah, if __**we **__couldn't do it, what makes the__ Chicago P.D. think that __**they **__can?" Joe joked._

_They chatted about other things for a few more minutes before saying goodbye. Joe hung up, popped a few more ibuprofen, and called the airline to book a flight to O'Hare._

She seated herself primly beside him on the lobby sofa and peered at him over wire-rimmed glasses. "I hope you don't think you're being inconspicuous."

"Maybe you just know me too well." Joe said, looking her over. Her sleek black hair, pulled up in a French twist, could have been a very well-made wig, but her figure, always trim and lean, was now supermodel thin—he doubted it was an intentional part of her disguise. She smiled at him fondly, but he didn't let her smile distract him. "So I did get the right hotel."

"You nearly missed us." Fiona said. "We were just leaving."

"So you did get your money." Joe said coolly. The newspapers didn't tend to publicize ransom arrangements for fear of encouraging copycats.

"My business here is complete." she said cryptically. "The question is, what exactly is _your _business here?"

"It's you." He grabbed her hand and held it. She looked startled, but didn't pull away. "Why did you come to me at Frank's wedding, Fiona? What kind of con were you pulling? Is your father even really dead?"

She looked just as pained as if he'd physically hit her. "It wasn't a con. I told you the truth that night."

"And then you left."

"What would you have had me do?" she protested. "_Stay?_ You and I both know that can't happen."

He looked down at he hand he held in his, and then back up to her face, shock in his eyes. "Is that a wedding ring?"

She tried to pull her hand away, but he held fast. "It's a disguise, Joe." she sighed. "You see that man at the front desk? My new partner."

The man in the check-out line was maybe thirty years old, tall, dark, and handsome, with an exotic charm about him. At his feet was a locked briefcase, the kind that could easily hold a few hundred thousand dollars in 20s and 50s. Joe stiffened despite himself as the man turned and, spotting Fiona, blew her a kiss. "_That's_ your new partner?"

"_Business_ partner." Fiona emphasized. "He sets up the gigs, handles the money. I plan the jobs."

"You mean the robberies." Joe said flatly.

"You've always known what I do."

"I know what you _did._" Joe corrected. "What are you doing now? Where'd you find this guy? Who are you working for?"

"I haven't changed, Joe. But the world is changing. I've had to branch out a little bit. Roberto and I—"

"_Roberto?_ Oh, he has a name now, does he?" Joe said snidely.

She looked at him like he was crazy. "Of course he has a name."

"And are you sleeping with him too?"

He regretted the outburst immediately, even before she delivered a ringing slap to his face and stalked out of the hotel, but his pride wouldn't let him go after her and apologize... not that he'd be able to find her if she didn't want to be found.

His black mood only intensified as Roberto stopped briefly to glare at him as he followed her with the suitcases.

* * *

"_You've got company._"

"What?!" It was exactly the kind of thing Joe didn't want to hear when he was partially finished breaking into a safe on the 10th floor of an office building that was a front for a terrorist organization. He stood up and looked around, pressing his finger to the comm link in his ear. "...So, do you have any useful information for me, here, or did you just say that to freak me out?"

"_I don't know, Joe, I can't get eyes on them. If we turn the security cameras back on, you're gonna be on them. All I know is two people, all dressed in black, were just seen entering the building through the side door on one._"

"And since we neutralized the guards and the alarms and the pressure sensors..." Joe groaned. He wasn't near finished with this safe.

"_They're going to be there in four, maybe five minutes. Assuming that they're after the same thing we are._" Kev finished. "_And that they take the stairs._"

"Crap. Hang on." He'd been going for stealth, trying to get in and out as quietly as he could. Now he was going for speed. "I'm going to use the big drill."

"_They'll be able to hear that all over the building_." Kev protested.

"No choice." Joe grunted, grabbing the heavy drill out of his equipment bag and plugging it into the power source. "If we did our jobs right there won't be anyone to hear us anyway. And if we don't get the hard copy of this database, people die." He pulled his goggles down over his eyes, knowing that the wider drill bit tended to throw shrapnel.

"_Fuck. They're taking the elevator. I don't believe this._" Kev said urgently. "_What the hell kind of thief takes an elevator to a break-in?_"

"The kind that knows all the security measures are neutralized?" Joe guessed. He shoved the drill back in the bag, and the bag under the wide mahogany desk. Then he took his place behind a filing cabinet, out of sight of the door and ready to strike as soon as the unknown intruders appeared. "Let them come. I'm getting that drive, and if I have to fight my way out I will."

"_Be careful._"

"No duh." Joe hunkered down against the cool metal of the filing cabinet, tensed, listening. Less than a minute later, the office door creaked open. A thin figure, just one, entered the room cautiously. To Joe's astonishment, the intruder went straight to the safe and knelt before it, black-gloved fingers caressing the dial carefully. No drills, no tools, no liquid nitrogen. Who the hell could crack a modern safe by hand?

The person's mask covered their entire face, only the skin around the eyes visible in the dark. With no more aid than a tiny microphone and a flashlight, the intruder manipulated the dial with an agonizing slowness. Neither of them breathed as the safe popped open with a soft clunk.

Joe made his move, going in low for the tackle, taking the intruder out at the knees and pinning them to the floor. The person grunted, struggling under him, and Joe didn't even have to rip her mask off to reach the sudden, sickening realization that he was sitting astride Fiona Fox. He didn't have time to say a word, though, before he felt himself being grabbed from behind and hauled off of her by a pair of strong male arms.

Acting quickly, he jammed his elbow into his attacker's ribs. When he recoiled, Joe spun around, pulling him into a headlock. As Joe squeezed his neck between forearm and bicep, the man's struggles grew weaker and weaker until he slumped forward, unconscious. Joe deposited him in the desk chair, which rolled back a few feet until it was stopped by Fiona.

"Was that really necessary, Joe?" she asked angrily, peeling away her partner's mask and feeling his neck for a pulse.

Joe couldn't help but feel pleased by the sight of Roberto's limp form. "I don't know, but it felt great."

"_Goddammit, Joe! Is there __**anywhere**__ we won't run into some girl you know?!_"

Joe grimaced. For a moment he'd forgotten that Kev could hear everything... and he got the sense that, whatever was about to go down, he didn't need it getting around the Network. "Give me five minutes, Kev. I'm turning you off."

"_Joe, you can't—_"

"Kevin." His tone brooked no argument as he switched off the power to his mic. "What are you doing here, Fiona?"

"I could ask you the same question." she challenged in smooth British tones, slipping off her own mask and letting her hair fall down around her shoulders.

Joe swallowed hard. Why did he have to fight this ridiculous attraction every time her saw her? _Stick to business, Hardy. We established a long time ago that there's no relationship here. No friendship. No trust. _"I asked first." he said harshly. "Did you know I would be here?"

She folded her arms across her chest. "We knew the meeting was tonight at the cove, figured that the office would be mostly empty, and this would be the most logical time for the government to send a retrieval team in for the drive. We knew that someone would be here." she admitted. "We didn't know it would be you."

Joe mirrored her position, angry now himself. "So, what, you're in the intelligence game now? Stealing stolen info from terrorists and putting it in the hands, of... who? Other terrorists?"

She scowled at him. "You can get off your high horse, Joe. You know what it's called when you steal from thieves? _Stealing_."

Joe reached into the safe, grabbing the drive and holding it tightly in his fist. "Do you know what's on this drive, Fiona? Access codes for government buildings all over the country. Do you know what kind of damage this could cause if it fell into the wrong hands?"

"Don't you preach at me, Joe Hardy. So what if I get paid to procure things for people of questionable moral standing? You do exactly the same thing. The Network isn't exactly a paragon of clean, above-board business practices, is it? Your own government denies that you exist."

"It's not the same." Joe growled, taking a step forward.

She stood her ground. "It is. You're a pawn. A cog in a machine that shouldn't even be here. And this—" she reached for the drive, but Joe grabbed her and twisted her around, forcing her back so that she was sitting on the desk, his hands gripping her wrists tightly enough to completely immobilize her, her hands trapped between them. She winced in pain, and he realized he was putting pressure on a silver band poking out from under her glove.

"Is that my watch?" He'd nearly forgotten that she'd absconded with it after the wedding two years ago, but it was definitely the same one—a man's watch, with a scratched-up face and a too-large silver-plated band that slid halfway down her forearm.

She actually blushed. "I... well... it's not worth anything."

"About fifteen bucks and the ability to tell time."

She couldn't meet his eyes. "I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have taken it, I just..."

"You just what?" Joe pressed. His anger faded away, replaced with a sense of bemusement. He'd never heard Fiona Fox apologize for stealing anything before.

"I just wanted to keep it." she confessed softly. "To remind me. You gave me something that night, Joe. Something I've never gotten from anyone else." He raised a rakish eyebrow and she blushed again, rolling her eyes. "Not _that_."

"So that night _did_ mean something to you." Joe mused. How much time had he spent thinking about her, wondering if it had all been fake, a trick, a means to an end that he didn't even understand?

"Yes." she murmured simply. "I just told you it did."

He released her wrist and stroked his palm over her hair, kissing her briefly before pulling away. "I can't let you take this, Fiona." he said, holding up the drive. "It's too important. People could die." He grabbed his bag of equipment from under the desk and slid the drive into it.

She looked away, eyes on the ground. "I've never returned to a client empty-handed before."

"Then don't return." It came out before he had a chance to think. They both stared at each other, wide -eyed in the darkness.

"_What?_"

"Don't go back. Come with me." What the hell was he saying? Was it a _proposal_? He didn't even know. But Joe Hardy had always followed his gut, and his gut was saying that he couldn't leave her, not now, not without regretting it.

"You're asking me to... to betray my partner, to turn my back on my whole life, and just... go with you?" Fiona asked in a voice of mixed horror and wonderment.

"Yeah." Joe was warming to the idea. Especially the betraying-her-partner bit. "Yeah. That's what I'm asking you to do."

She just stared at him. "Joe, that's crazy. How could this possibly work out? You barely even know me."

"I know I care about you." Joe said. "And you know it too. That's why you came to me when your father died. It's why you wear my damn watch even though it's way too big."

She pressed her lips together, thinking. She looked over her shoulder at Roberto, who was starting to stir. "I can't."

The rejection hit him like a punch to the gut. "What?"

There were tears in her eyes. "I can't."

The scream of electronic feedback blasted through his head as his comm link came back online, catching Kev in mid-rant. "_-you selfish sonofabitch! You can't just turn me off in the middle of a mission! You'd better not be dead in there. Or, you know what? Yeah! You'd better be dead._" Joe grimaced in pain, holding his ear. Back to business. He could get through this. "I've got the drive, Kev. I'm on my way out."

Fiona's teary eyes pleaded with him to understand. "Joe, I'm sorry, I—"

Roberto regained consciousness in a fit of coughing. "What did you do to her?" he managed to choke out, as menacingly as a man who couldn't breathe could. He struggled to get out of the chair, regaining his bearings.

"I'd stay right there." Joe said coldly. He looked between Roberto and Fiona, perched on the desk, and said into his mic, "Kev? Reactivate the office pressure sensors on my go." He knew this wouldn't hold them forever, but it would give the Network some time to get some distance from this cluster... and it would give _him_ time to get some distance from Fiona Fox.

Both sets of eyes widened in horror as Joe stepped over the office threshold without looking back. "Go."


End file.
